


Forevermore

by bluegrassbaby



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys Kissing, Friends to Lovers, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 07:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16677604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegrassbaby/pseuds/bluegrassbaby
Summary: Set after TFP, Sherlock gets injured and it's a wake-up call for John. Could also be called--The Fic in Which She Used Too Many Hyphens. But I was trying something a little bit different :) I welcome constructive criticism and thoughts.





	Forevermore

It had been a year. A year of you-drop-her-off-I’ll-pick-her-up, of you-get-the-take-away-I’ll-start-the-bath, of bedtime Bach and dead-of-night-tea, of Saturdays with suspects at NSY and Sundays feeding the ducks. Rosie grew like a time-lapse photo of a plant erupting from its seed reaching, climbing, stretching for the sun. Sherlock never expected to be making growth charts or to be titrating and graphing the exact amount of spinach he could mix into her sweet potatoes before she made the very same face her father makes when he tastes Sherlock’s tea. He never expected to be analyzing crime scene photos on his laptop with a small form curled against his side, warming him from the inside out. After Sherrinford, he had anticipated one of his familiar black moods, everything colorless and crumbling around the edges, hours of scraping his bow into the sounds of his sadness and stalking the city seeking the foulest specimens of humanity to validate his staunch disbelief in everything hopeful and good. But they had moved in straightaway, John coming to him just a week later with hesitant eyes and tentative smiles asking to start anew, to live like family, because he had nothing else, Rosie had nothing else, and he didn’t feel like enough and he didn’t deserve it after everything but he wanted this. He didn’t want the lonely, inconveniently located flat haunted by echoes of an almost-life. John said he wanted the mess and the chaos and comfort of a real-life Baker Street. He wanted companionship and tea. Sherlock said yes. Yes, yes, yes to everything. This was not a frozen-blinking-time-stopped moment because he may not get a third chance. He couldn’t afford a miscommunication, another half-formed thought, another tarmac moment, never-to-be-expressed and always-wondered-about sentiment. Not this time. He expanded within his skin, tingling, pressing outward, pushing his lips up into a grin mirrored on John’s face. And so the black mood never came. For weeks, the days were filled with reconstruction of their flat and their friendship, transformation of the rebuilt structure into a home suitable for a toddler, a detective and his loyal physician blogger.

Eventually the dark times came, as they always had, but less intense--sometimes a few hours, sometimes a few days, but they were shared and assuaged with tea and warm-feet-afternoon-naps and whiskey-before-the-fire evenings, telly-on-the-couch nights, and silent walks, arms gently bumping. The heat and sunlight of family (toast in triangles and toddler size jumpers in the laundry) seeped into the corners of his Mind Palace and illuminated them, sweeping away the cobwebbed crusty bit-not-good thoughts. The cases came too, as they always do, but they were not the wild jumping-between-rooftops, narrowly-escaping-knives kinds of cases, but the less intense, solving-the-crime-using-deduction-think, John, think! kinds of cases, solved from the living room walls spattered with pictures and stringed thumb tacks. Some crime scenes were visited but more often images were sent and viewed on laptops to the soft background clicks and clacks of children’s toys or the soft hum of children’s shows. A year of contentment glowed beneath Sherlock’s normal pallor and warmed John’s gaze, softening the angles of the doctor’s face and the sharp edges of the prior year. There was no time for dating between the Friday-evening-take-away-curry and Angelo’s super-special-Saturday-spaghetti made with care for his favorite little detective. No time between surgery shifts and late-night-cases. And John didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss awkward first questions and fumbling first kisses. He didn’t miss long evenings spent tolerating dull conversation while wondering if Sherlock was running about in alleys, risking his life without his conductor of light. He now touched Sherlock often and softly and the more he did it, the more he wanted to do it. Thoughts had begun to flit through his mind—of leaning into him on the couch, of the nape of his neck bent over the microscope, of the errant curl over his left eye. They came unbidden, but not necessarily unfamiliar or unwelcome. John hadn’t quite decided what to do with them yet. They were distracting, in a pleasant, day-dreamy way, not a panicky way. For now, he was sitting with them. Holding them.

 

It happened on a Tuesday at 9:47am. Because nothing ever happens on Tuesday mornings, he was completely unsuspecting when his phone rang, fortuitously, between patients. Frowning at Lestrade’s number on the screen with a sense of foreboding, John answered. 

“Hi, Greg, what’s up?”

“It’s Sherlock—“ at this point, the doctor had to sit down abruptly, pushing away the thought that this call was always coming, this was always how it was going to end, how he was going to find out, that he should’ve been more mentally prepared. 

“Is he ok?” he harshly interrupted the DI. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade said quickly, “He’s gonna be alright. But we just got to Bart’s. He was interviewing a suspect at the yard and the perp attacked him—swung the chair at him. He may have a broken arm and he has cut over his eye that probably needs to be stitched. Maybe a concussion, not sure.” John pulled air into his lungs slowly, he’s-not-dead-he’s-not-dead-he’s-not-dead, clinically and objectively observing the return of his left handed tremor. 

“Is he conscious?”

“Yeah, but less obstinate, which has us a little worried. He hasn’t called anyone names or yelled. I think his head hurts. He didn’t really want us to bother you at work, but asked me to let you know what happened. He didn’t say it, but I think he wants you here.”

“I’ll be there immediately. I’m leaving now.” John stood quickly, swayed for a moment, paused, hand on his desk, eyes closed. 

He rushed into the A&E, barking at the woman in white behind the desk, 

“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, where is he?” She looked up at him, who-do-you-think-you-are indignant, but then her shuttered face abruptly broke into an incongruous smile, obviously recognizing him. 

“Ooooh, you’re that bloke who’s always with him, his partner—“ She had the starry-eyed-about-to-ask-for-an-autograph look. Impatiently, 

“Yes, Dr. John Watson, now where is he?” She directed him to Room 9, where he arrived to find Lestrade at the door, texting furiously.

“Oh, good, you’re here—“ The doctor ignored him and thrust himself into the room without pretense. 

“Sherlock.” He found him lying curled on the cot back to the door in what would normally be his sulking-bored-angry-with-the-world pose. A groan came from the defensively postured detective, beneath long-fingered hands that were holding his head. John moved to the bed, sliding his hip onto it as he tangled his fingers into his friend’s hair.

“Hey,” so softly, “Let me see what happened to you.” Sherlock turned, squinting against the light. The purpled skin over his left eye was marred with 8 sutures, well-placed, parallel with his forehead lines. Gentle touches against his scalp, the detective’s eyes drifted shut. “Anywhere else?”

“Just my arm,” he murmured, holding it up for his doctor’s inspection. The jacket had been cut off and the grossly swollen, bruised right forearm hung like a broken wing. John’s breathing caught. “We’re waiting for x-ray results. Obviously, it’s broken. They don’t know if it needs surgery or just a cast.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed in slowly, wincing in sympathy, seemingly unaware that his hand was still in his flatmate’s hair. “You must be in quite a bit of pain.” 

“Some. They gave me something for it. Don’t worry,“ he said quickly, opening his eyes to meet his friend’s. “Lestrade knows about it and they won’t give me anything to go home with.” John shook his head,

“You need it right now. I can help you manage it when we get home. Sherlock,” John started, anger making its way into his tone, “How the fuck did this happen? Wasn’t there someone in the room with you? Did Lestrade really send you in to interview someone alone??” Sherlock would’ve shaken his head, but it ached too much and he grimaced. 

“There was another officer—“ the detective started, when Lestrade stepped into the room, as if on cue. 

“Greg, what the hell--how did you let this happen?” Guilt and a little fear of the Captain Watson Tone revealed itself in the DI’s expression. He ran his right hand roughly over the back of his neck. 

“Tindall was in there with him, but Sherlock had just gotten the perp to confess and Tindall knocked on the window to make sure someone got it on record. When no one came in, Tindall decided to step out for a second to see if anyone was still standing at the window and the perp took that lapse to swing his chair.” John’s entire body vibrated with tension, fists clenched. He was irate,

“Greg, what if—“ John felt Sherlock’s hand on his arm, squeezing with urgency. 

“John, I’m ok. It’s not Greg’s fault.” John’s head swiveled around to meet his friend’s gaze, unaware that Sherlock had risen and was now sitting up behind him on the bed. He felt shot through with building-heat-rage, but something he saw in the detective’s eyes gave him pause. He slowly took a deep breath with a long exhale, very deliberately relaxed his hands. He looked into the floor when he cleared his throat and said quietly, 

“Sorry, Greg. I know Sherlock can get into trouble all on his own.” 

“S’alright, mate,” Lestrade’s still wore an expression of guilt, in addition to understanding. “I’m sorry, too. John, you know I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, either.” He met Sherlock’s eyes for a moment and left the room. 

“Hey,” Sherlock murmured. John bored a hole in the floor as he exhaled harshly. 

“Sorry for that. I just—“ John cleared his throat and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“It’s alright,” Sherlock’s hand was on his arm again, pulling the doctor towards him. John turned his pained expression to his battered best friend and moved into an embrace that was meant to be, yet wasn’t, the manly, quick-back-thump-best-mate embrace. It was more of a clinging-for-dear-life embrace.

“Sherlock, I can’t lose you. I can’t lose anyone else in my life. I’ve just had…we’ve just had a good year. A really good year. Together. A year without any trauma or….” his voice huffed in a sob-shudder. Sherlock’s arm around his waist tightened and he pulled the scent of John (tea-antiseptic-aftershave) deep into his lungs as his face pressed into the doctor’s left shoulder. John’s arms were wrapped around his shoulders tightly and it felt like Christmas and his birthday and a double-locked-room murder all rolled into one. He hoped John would never let go. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said low and husky. John felt the timbre in his marrow.

“Good. Because we’re a family now. And Rosie needs you…I need you,” he added softly. He pulled back, feeling timid yet boldly looking into the detective’s sea-blue-green gaze, needing him to understand the depth of what he was saying—of what he was feeling. He saw love mirrored back at him and without his mind’s permission, his hands were on either side of his best friend’s face and their lips were pressed together, plush-warm-dizzy. He felt Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath and he froze, pulling away, mumbling,

“Sorry, sorry, I—“ but he was cut off by the detective’s lips, warm, pliant, once again moving against his, fingers moving in his hair, over his jaw, ankles that had locked around the back of his calves as he stood against the exam table, pulling him close, allowing no escape, no hesitation, no doubt. 

“There is nothing—“ Sherlock’s words rumbled into his mouth “—to be sorry for.” And he continued to delve again and again into the doctor’s mouth, tangling their tongues, learning the inside of his mouth, grasping the back of his skull with his long, pale fingers, sending white-hot bolts of electricity down John’s sternum, straight to his core, leaving him breathless-gasping and devoid of reason. Finally, remembering where they were, John pulled back just a hair. 

“Sherlock,” he attempted to recall how to breathe. “The doctor will be in any minute.” His eyes met his love’s, and the detective looked as wrecked as he felt. 

“Right,” the detective leaned into John’s forehead, working on slowing his rapid pulse. “I never imagined this was where our first kiss would happen,“ he admitted with a smile. John grinned.  


“Our first kiss? You thought about it?”

“Of course, didn’t you?” Sherlock gave him his trademark don’t-be-an-idiot expression, before suddenly morphing into a vulnerable look, stricken with doubt, and he uncharacteristically repeated himself. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes, Sherlock, yes.” John quickly replied, having the advantage of having two working hands to run over Sherlock’s face and into his hair as he peppered his high cheekbones and jaw with kisses between words. “A thousand times, a million times, all the time, for as long as I can remember. Never doubt that.” Relief filtered through the detective and he pulled John impossibly closer with his one functional arm. 

“Good,“ he seemed to need to absorb the information. “I thought I was taking a risk there, but I couldn’t stop. Not after so long. We will continue this at Baker Street, then?” John’s smile lit his face like the sun and he nodded. 

“Yes.” He whispered, stepping back as he heard footsteps approaching the exam room, releasing the detective’s hand just as the door swung open. A gray-haired man in a white coat entered the room, still studying the chart. 

“Mr. Holmes?” he extended his hand to Sherlock, snapping the binder shut and placing it on the bedside table. “It looks like you won’t need surgery,” he said brightly. “We’re going to give you a soft cast—a velcro brace that you can take off when bathing, but under no circumstances should you use your arm or hand for anything for the next 6 weeks. You can take it off for cleanliness only. Wear it at night, too. You’re going to need help with things—shaving, writing, everything you do with your dominant hand. If you were a child, we would cast it so we could be sure that you don’t move it.” John suppressed a smile and shot a sidelong glance at the detective. 

“He is a bit of a child at times,“ John said in a teasing tone. The doctor smiled, 

“Aren’t we all? But this is serious. If this fracture isn’t permitted to heal, you could end up needing surgery later and you may never hold a bow properly again.” Sherlock blinked, gave John a concerned look, and nodded. 

“I understand. I will not move it for 6 weeks.” 

“Good. A nurse will be in with the soft cast and then we’ll get your discharge paperwork ready. You’ll be out of here within the hour. I want to give you some pain pills because it’s going to hurt quite a bit over the next few days, but I understand you a have a substance abuse history?” 

“I’ll help with that,” John interjected. “Give them to me and I’ll administer them. I’m a physician and his….his flatmate. I won’t let him overuse them” The doctor nodded, handing the prescription to John and bidding them farewell. 

“I’m glad you don’t need surgery,” John said, as he tucked the prescription into his wallet. “I’ll get that filled after we get you home.”

“You can go ahead if you want, John, get back to work. I can meet you at home later.” John looked up surprised and concerned,

“Sherlock, you may have a concussion. I’m not letting you wander about London on your own. I’ll get you settled and resting at home and then I’ll go pick up Rosie and get your pills on the way.” The detective gave him a weak smile just before the nurse arrived with the cast. 

“This may hurt a bit,” she said as she eased his arm into the rigid frame of the brace. The detective bit off a moan, his face crumping as he paled. John stepped closer, slid a hand over his back and rubbed small circles. When she was finished, Sherlock’s head dropped and he slouched forward, his breathing labored. John suddenly found his arm around his friend. “There you are, then. The doctor already gave you instructions, so you boys are ready to go.” She smiled as she pulled the door shut behind her. John stood in front Sherlock once again, sliding his hand through the silky-inky curls, pulling the uninjured side of his forehead against his chest and resting his cheek atop the detective’s head. 

“Alright?” he murmured. “I’m sorry, that must’ve been really painful.” The answering nod rubbed into his chest.

“Take me home, John.”

“Gladly.” Sherlock lifted his wan face. 

“John, I may have a concussion. I’ll need close monitoring. Throughout the night, probably. You may have to stay close, doctor.” A sparkle-twinkle lit his gaze as an answering grin spread across his doctor’s face. 

“You have a very valid point, Mr. Holmes. I may need to remain within arm’s reach for at least one night. If not more.” The flirtatious smirk slipped from the detective’s face as he whispered, 

“More?” It was meant to be a bold statement, but sounded like a question. He meant to look cocky and confident, but looked vulnerable. With rough, competent physician-palms, John framed Sherlock’s face, forcing his face upward, his gaze catching and holding. 

“Forevermore, “ he answered as their lips met.


End file.
